Draven gets enchanted socks from Rhea that warm themselves automatically. He pretends he hates them. He absolutely doesn’t. Rhea unwraps a gold tarot pendant from Elle. Elle receives a starlight hair comb Rhea “totally didn’t spend a fortune on.” Caelan gets a charmed flask that refills with mulled wine from Draven. I open a delicate gold bracelet from Slade—its charm shaped like a crescent moon engraved with my initial. My throat tightens.
Elle is knee-deep in wrapping paper, humming off-key and wielding ribbon like a weapon, when she suddenly blurts at full volume, “Rheadora Aureline, hand me the scissors!”
The room freezes. Slade stills mid-stir. Caelan’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. Newt lifts his head, ears twitching like he knows some serious shit has just went down.
I blink once. Twice.
Draven… Draven looks like someone just slapped him with destiny.
Rhea goes red from collarbone to scalp. “ELLE,” she snarls, “I swear onallBellamy secrets—”
Elle yelps, clapping her hands over her own mouth. “Oops! I panicked! The tape was stuck and—”
I’m already laughing. “Ialwaysforget your full name exists.”
Rhea shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “Itdoesn’texist. We do not say it. We do not breathe it. We do not acknowledge its presence in mortal planes.”
Draven murmurs the name under his breath like he’s testing it on his tongue. “Rheadora…” Rhea freezes. He continues, slower this time. “Rheadora Aureline. That’s—”
“Don’t,” she warns.
His lips curve. “Beautiful.”
Rhea throws a bow at his head hard enough to qualify as a threat. “Choke.”
Caelan cackles. “Oh, I likeher.”
Slade leans in close to me, voice warm against my ear. “Your family is… extraordinary.”
“You mean chaotic,” I whisper.
He kisses the corner of my jaw. “That too.”
Dinner turns into exactly the kind of warm, loud, borderline-dysfunctional feast I always wished my childhood had included. Rhea complains about Elle’s wrapping technique. Elle complains about Rhea’s control issues. Caelan steals garlic knots off everyone’s plates except Slade’s. Draven and Rhea bicker so intensely it might actually be flirting. Newt sprawls in the middle of the table like he’s the centerpiece.
The air smells like roasted herbs, melted butter, cinnamon sugar, and the faint spark of magic that always hangs around a Bellamy celebration.
At some point, Rhea nudges Slade and demands he “stop brooding and pass the cranberries.” He does with surprising grace.
Draven tells a story about a demon noble who once accidentally cursed himself into speaking only compliments for a week. Rhea snorts wine out her nose. Caelan applauds like we’re on Broadway.
Elle sighs dramatically. “Isn’t this nice? A calm, peaceful Bellamy Christmas.”
Rhea shoots her a look. “Don’t say ‘peaceful.’ That’s how you summon disaster.”
Elle shrugs. “Too late. Pass the stuffing.”
The laughter, the teasing, the clatter of forks and crystal—it all turns warm inside my chest, settling in places I didn’t know were empty until now.
Slade brushes a hand along my thigh under the table. Not demanding. Not claiming. Just… there.
And in the soft glow of the tree lights, with my chosen family bickering around me, I realize tonight feels like a promise.
A future wrapped in warmth and wickedness and the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission. A future where Slade Athalar fits beside me like he was built for that place all along.
And when he kisses my temple softly, reverently—I know I’m not wrong.
This ishome.
